I sat at the table in the corner and met a man that changed my life forever, a waiter. He was about 40 years old with golden brown skin and bushy hair. His beard was well groomed, yet wild.
"Hello. I'm Matthew. I am your servant."
"No, you're my waiter. Not my servant."
"I don't mind."
"But we're in America and we're free."
"As your servant, I'm free, but in America, maybe we're not."
I was offended. "So I guess you're not from here?"
"Yes, I was born and raised two blocks from here."
"Then why don't you appreciate our freedoms?"
"Before I answer that, I don't want to take up your time before I take your order."
"It's ok. I'm actually interested to know why you feel like we're not free."
"I feel free to serve you. But you don't want me to feel free as a servant. Even an American servant."
"It's not that I don't want you to fee free. It's that as Americans we aren't anyone's servants."
"Even if we want to be?"
"No offense, but aren't you an African-American?"
"Why would that be offensive?" the waiter asked calmly.
"No, not that you're an African-American, but my assumption."
"What assumption?"
"My assumption that you of all people would reject servanthood."
"I reject servanthood that is forced and dehumanizing. I reject men who act as if they are God. But I don't reject serving you or anyone else."
I thought about that. At my job we had seminars on "servant leadership," on how those who are the best leaders are servants at heart. They seek to find and meet the needs of those who follow them, and of those who lead them. But something didn't sit well me with...at the seminars and with this waiter.
"I don't know. It just seems like nobody should serve anybody...well, not that. It seems like nobody should be anybody's 'servant.'"
"Even if they want to be?"
"But why would someone want to be?"
"Is there anyone in your life that you love deeply?"
"Yes, my wife and children."
"When you try to make them happy, aren't you serving them? Aren't you their servant?"
I thought about that. Or I'd never thought about that. Sometimes I saw myself as my wife's willing servant...even her slave. I gladly gave myself to her for her happiness. I am hers. She is mine. She owns me, and I'm proud to belong to her. I looked up at the waiter, and he was looking down at me. His eyes penetrated mine, not uncomfortably, but like he really saw me. Like he was paying close attention to me, and only me. Undivided attention. The restaurant was loud and busy, but it felt like it was just him and me. I liked him. And I believe he liked me.
"Thank you for being my servant."
"You're welcome. Thank you for the honor of serving you. What can I get you?"
I gave him my order. I read the paper while waiting for my order. It finally came, and my waiter, my servant, brought it to me quickly and skillfully.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"Not for now."
"I'm available when you need me."
The waiter had a way of being pleasantly present and absent. I always felt him even when I didn't see him. When I wanted a refill, I looked for him. He was at another table, yet he turned to me just when I was about to raise my hand. He nodded. I knew he would be right with me. He was able to nod to me without diverting his attention from the lady he was serving. I hadn't seen anyone do that before, someone so connected. I wanted to be like him. I decided I would be like him.
And that decision changed my life:
I am a servant.
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